Hellraiser: The Hellbound's Desire
by jordanbobe
Summary: The infamous Lament Configuration is being peddled at a specialty collectible store. The store owner, Wyatt, wants a high price for the invaluable box, but the woman who has come to the shop is not playing by his rules. She serves a master that needs the box delivered in Thailand. Her master refuses to take no for an answer. If Wyatt refuses there will be Hell to pay.


**1. COLLECTIBLES **

The street that housed Mystic Collectibles sat directly in the center of the seediest part of London. Here no one dared walk without a weapon, unless you were amongst the residents. Drug users, drug dealers, pimps and hookers were the standard in the eight block square that they called, affectionately, Hell.

A man missing half of his left leg leaned heavily on a crutch just outside the door to Mystic Collectibles. Silver spray paint had made a shimmering circle around his lips. In his free hand he held a bottle of gut rot whiskey without even bothering to keep it concealed in a paper bag.

"Are you sure that this is the place?" the transporter asked. He couldn't help but notice that more and more filthy people were creeping out of their hiding places. It reminded him of a Romero zombie movie.

"This is it," his current employer said. She smiled and despite the fact that she was an absolutely beautiful woman the expression sent a chill up the transporter's spine.

The limousine's driver lowered the window and looked in the rearview mirror. "Ma'am, if you plan to make the purchase and get our friend to the airport you have better move fast."

"Fine. You two stay here. I'll be back."

She brazenly stepped out onto the street. The clothes she wore were worth more money than some of the homeless had seen in the last twelve years combined. She was carrying a steel case with her. Inside the case was three-quarters of a million dollars in American currency. She did not flinch at all as the bloodshot, jaundiced eyes followed her path to the store.

As soon as she stepped foot into the store the stench of impurity filled her nostrils. This was the place for certain and soon she would have what the master demanded. No one greeted her as she entered the store front. A little bell above the door chimed as she stepped over the threshold.

The contents of the shelves were bland, boring, just the kind of thing you would expect to find at an antique store. Handmade, one of a kind garbage that should have been thrown out with the rubbish. According to the price tags people paid a pretty penny to make their modern home look three hundred years old. It disgusted her, of course most things about mankind churned her stomach.

She walked down the center aisle of the store, humming a tune softly. Somewhere in this store there was a contraption that played the same melody, but only when opened by a skillful hand or the hand of a condemned soul. She could feel the vibrations of the Lemarchand's Box calling out to her. The master had promised her this piece would be the original, the Lament Configuration. She knew that he would not deceive her, the location of the box was as important to him as any of her other brethren if not more.

At the rear of the store was a counter housing an antique-looking cash register and three blown glass bongs. Sitting behind the counter was a man whose appearance drew her attention. She could only see from his shoulders to his crown, but nearly every inch of his flesh was covered in black ink.

Even when their eyes met he offered no greeting. Instead he sifted out a pile of cocaine on the countertop and used the postal envelope it had come from to straighten it into a line. He snorted the drugs and rolled his head back.

"Now that, me lady, is a fucking good way to start your day," he laughed.

"Are you Wyatt?" she asked.

"Do you see any other wheelchair bound motherfuckers in here, sweet tits? Of course I'm Wyatt. You must be the woman that got a hold of me about the devil box, right?" She did not reply, but Wyatt clapped as if victorious none the less. "I knew that shit the moment you walked through the doors."

"I assume you have prepared it for me?" she asked.

"Don't presume anything. I got another buyer. This guy offered me twice what you did. I told him I had to see the money, though, you know? This is the bloody life blood keeping me from starving on the streets like them baldy twats outside there. If the cash isn't there I ain't going to give up the devil box."

"We made an agreement. I came prepared to pay you the agreed amount of money you requested. It was not an easy task to get this much American currency laundered into London. If you're trying to barter a higher price you should have done so before we made the agreement."

"Listen, lady, I have the box so I have the power to do whatever the fuck I want to do, right? Do you think I'm taking a piss about this? I want what the box is worth."

The woman sighed. She set the case of cash on the counter and frowned. "Perhaps then I will give you this for today and bring you the rest in a week. I will have to see the box before I make my final decision, though. How do I know you have the legitimate merchandise?"

"Fine, follow me," he waved her around the corner. As he made his way to a small elevator platform she saw that he was in a wheel chair. His legs had been cut off just above the knees. His entire body was covered in the black ink. There was so little exposed skin that she barely noticed that he was completely nude.

The platform elevator came to a halt in a poorly lit basement. Here she saw the articles that had filled her with such elation. A book case of aborted fetuses forever preserved in formaldehyde stood next to a display case full of babies aged one to three years. Sitting on top of the display case there were five infant mummies. Hanging on hooks attached to a spinning display were sheets of human skin. Carved into the skin were symbols that she knew quite well.

On the opposite side of the room was an authentic Iron Maiden flanked on either side with various antiqued torture tools. Shelves of various collectibles ran the rest of the wall. Pipes that had once belonged to serial killers. Pornographic photos taken by rapists and child molesters. Even a shelf devoted completely to snuff films.

Sitting in the center of the room was a small crystal table and resting on a velvet blanket at its top was the Lament Configuration. She took a step toward it, she could feel the power it possessed and it made her loins gush. As she took her next step she was acutely aware of yet another orgasm.

Then Wyatt moved his chair between her and the box. He crossed his arms over his narrow chest and shook his head. "I don't care how fine of a lass you are, tits, you ain't touching me box until I see the rest of me money."

"It would be in your best interest to just let me take the Lemarchand's box," she said.

"It would be in my best interest, eh? Are you threatening me?"

"No, I am warning you. I must have that box today. The time has come for another to possess it."

"When that person comes up with my other seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars they can take it. Until then it remains here with me."

The woman almost looked sad as she turned away from Wyatt. She stood awkwardly, her shoulders and head drooping. A series of odd sounds came from her and then silence filled the room and Wyatt was left looking at the woman's hunched back.

When she turned back to him Wyatt couldn't help but let out a frightened whimper. Her beauty had been devoured by an unseen force. Her skin was a ghastly blue-gray, her lips and eyelids an unnatural shade of purple. Running from the cleft of her chin all the way to the bottom of her bosom was a gash that had been pinned back by twisted iron spikes. Her eyes stared at him, but there was no pigmentation to them at all.

"Fuck it! You can have the bloody box!" Wyatt cried out.

The Cenobite grinned. "The master knew this would happen. He never sent me here to just retrieve the box, but also to collect your soul."

"Who the fuck is the master?"

"You will meet him soon enough."

Wyatt was suddenly being lifted from the wheel chair by invisible hands. He twisted in mid-air for a moment, his body going in dozens of different directions. Finally he came to a rest staring directly into the gruesome face of the Cenobite.

He tried to think of something to say, but the words were forgotten in his throat when the baby mummies began sobbing. The infants in the jars did the same. Though they couldn't cry the aborted fetuses began thrashing around in their jars.

The horror was followed directly by intense agony. All of the sudden every square inch of Wyatt's body felt like he had a deep sunburn. It took him a moment to realize that the sensation was the ink from his tattoos being sucked out of his skin. The black ink swirled around him. Blood fell to the floor and flooded the seat of his wheel chair, but the ink separated from it and continued to swirl.

After three very long minutes of this Wyatt's body was devoid of the tattoos and the ink was hovering in front of his face. The ball of darkness seemed to be squeezing any blood that had accidentally been caught with it.

Wyatt sobbed even louder than the dead babies. The Cenobite merely looked at him. He turned his eyes away and shook his head. "You're not real. This isn't real."

The Cenobite grabbed him by the chin and turned his head to face her. "You can't spend your whole life with a foot in Hell's door and then expect to be forgiven at the last moment."

"I didn't kill any of these things! I brought them here so people could buy them, but I'm not a fucked up killer or anything."

"No, you are something much worse. You're an ordinary, greedy human being. You have no redeeming qualities."

The ball of ink shot out two appendages. The two small spikes dug into Wyatt's cheeks and burst back out. They wove their way from his cheeks up to his hairline. Through the thin fabric of his skin their obsidian color stood out ghastly.

"Our Father who art in Heaven—" Wyatt began.

"Cut the shit, Wyatt, He's not listening to you."

Two more appendages shot out of the ball of ink. The spikes tore through his eyes and swelled to the fill the sockets. Finally a limb the size of an arm shot out and tore its way through the lower half of his face. His corpse fell to the ground in a pool of his blood.

The Cenobite walked over and picked up the puzzle box from the cushion. She again began humming the tune that came from the box when it was successfully opened. By the time she reached the top of the elevator she looked human again. She picked up the suitcase and left the shop.

Once she was in the limo she tossed the box to the transporter. "That needs to be with Charlie Locke by the end of next week."

She slid the case of money over to him. "This should cover your expenses and give you a nice pay day as well. But if you try to swindle us we'll tear your soul apart."


End file.
